SALT | Acharei Mot 5784 - 2024

After listing the ten plagues that befell Pharaoh and the Egyptians, the Haggada comments that Rabbi Yehuda came up with an acronym for the ten plagues: “detzakh, adash, be-achav.”  The obvious question that has troubled many is the reason and significance behind this acronym.  What difference does it make that Rabbi Yehuda made such a classification? How does this add to our understanding of the ten plagues?

One simple answer claims that we have no need to look for any significance behind this acronym.  Rav Ovadya Bartenura, in his commentary to the mishnayot in Masekhet Menachot, observes that Rabbi Yehuda simply had a habit of coming up with concise acronyms for long lists.  The one in the Haggada is just one example of many instances where we find Rabbi Yehuda condensing lists into smaller groups.

Others, however, have attempted to find some meaning behind the classification of “detzakh, adash, be-achav.”  The Hagahot Maimoniyot (commenting on the Rambam’s text of the Haggada) claims that Rabbi Yehuda wished to ensure that we maintain the proper sequence of the ten plagues.  David Ha-melekh, in Tehillim 105, reviews the history of the Exodus and describes the plagues in a different sequence.  Rabbi Yehuda was therefore concerned that we might do the same, and hence divided the plagues into these categories to avoid this error.

A particularly fascinating approach to Rabbi Yehuda’s comment is taken by the Netziv, in his commentary to the Chumash. The Netziv claims that the release of Benei Yisrael occurred in three distinct stages, corresponding to “detzach, adash, be-achav.”  After the third plague, the plague of lice (and thus after “detzach”), Pharaoh lightened Benei Yisrael’s burden.  They remained slaves, but they were no longer forced to perform physically grueling labor as they had previously.  (The Netziv cites two sources to this effect – Masekhet Rosh Hashanah 11, and Ibn Ezra to Shemot 8:18.)  The next significant stage occurred after the second set of plagues, after the plague of boils.  At this point, the Netziv claims, Benei Yisrael were freed from bondage altogether. However, Pharaoh still refused to allow them to leave Egypt.  The Netziv notes that from this point on, the Torah describes Pharaoh’s refusal with the words, “He did not let BENEI YISRAEL go from his land.”  Until this point, the Torah always said, “He did not let THE NATION go.”  This implies that after the sixth plague, even Pharaoh granted Benei Yisrael a degree of respect and dignity.  He now looked at them as an independent nation, rather than simply “the people” who served as his slaves.  Yet, he refused to set them free until after the tenth plague, the smiting of the firstborn.

This approach of the Netziv perhaps gives us new insight into the personality of the story’s villain, Pharaoh.  From what the Netziv describes, Pharaoh emerges as not quite as unreasonably stubborn as we might have thought.  He did acknowledge the hand of God in the plagues, he understood that he was punished for his injustice towards Benei Yisrael.  How could he not have understood all this? However, Pharaoh was unwilling to undergo a fundamental change in perspective and character.  He felt content by making minor adjustments in his policy, but refused to make a complete about-face.  At times we must acknowledge fundamental errors that we have made in judgment, perspective, preconceptions, and certainly conduct. Hard as it may be, life sometimes requires a total change of attitude, that we change our direction completely. This, perhaps, is the lesson of “detzakh, adash, be-achav.”

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The thematic connection between berit mila and Pesach is clear and well established.  For one thing, berit mila and korban pesach constitute the only two mitzvot asei (“positive commandments”) for which one receives the severe punishment of “karet” for neglecting them.  Secondly, the Torah in Parashat Bo strictly forbids the consumption of the korban pesach by an “arel” – somebody uncircumcised.  In fact, Chazal famously comment that Benei Yisrael earned redemption in the merit of two mitzvot involving blood – the korban pesach, and circumcision.  Together, these two mitzvot pave the way for redemption.

We may arrive at a deeper understanding of this connection by taking a closer look at one prominent theme of the mitzva of berit mila.  A famous Midrash tells of a conversation between Rabbi Akiva and the Roman emperor of the time.  The emperor scoffed at the mitzva of circumcision, asking Rabbi Akiva, “Whose handiwork is more impressive – that of God, or that of human beings?”  This challenge to the mitzva of mila essentially reduces into, “If God wanted circumcised males, He would have created them circumcised.”  Rabbi Akiva replied by showing the emperor raw stalks of wheat alongside freshly baked loaves of bread.  The first, he pointed out, is the handiwork of the Almighty, whereas the second was that of man.  This shows that, in fact, the work of the human being surpasses that of the Almighty.

This conversation reflects a deep, theological rift between Rabbi Akiva and the Roman leader.  For the Roman, creation belongs exclusively to God.  The Almighty is the manufacturer, whereas we are the consumers.  We need only to pay a small price for the world – the pagans also believed in the need for ritual worship to grant us permission to continue living and enjoying the benefits of life.  But we merely receive the world, rather than create the world.

Rabbi Akiva teaches the emperor that, as we see from berit mila, Judaism has a much different perspective on man’s relationship to God and the world.  God did not sell us a finished product.  Rather, He handed us an imperfect world and charged us with the responsibility of perfecting it.  Just as our food does not come to us from God readymade, and the raw materials must be processed and developed, so does the world in its entirety require the human being to reach its perfection.  Man himself is also created imperfect; he must work and invest effort to refine and develop his character and soul.  This is one central message of berit mila.

For good reason, then, berit mila is a prerequisite to the korban pesach.  We cannot earn redemption until we appreciate the purpose of redemption – to help redeem the world, to become God’s partners in “manufacturing” earth.  Someone who thinks, as did the Roman emperor, that God gave us a perfect world, has no reason to be free.  Only once we understand Rabbi Akiva’s message, that God calls upon us to continue His work of creation, can we hope that God will release us from bondage to enable us to fulfill this eternal mission.

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Parashat Acharei-Mot begins by outlining the procedure of “avodat Yom Ha-kippurim,” the special atonement rituals performed by the kohen gadol on Yom Kippur.  This section was quite understandably selected as our Torah reading for Yom Kippur morning.

Many commentators have addressed the somewhat surprising introduction to this section: “The Lord said to Moshe after the death of the two sons of Aharon…”  Why does the Torah introduce the Yom Kippur avoda by recalling the tragic death of Aharon’s two sons?  Beyond the issue of the thematic association drawn here between the two, we must explain the structural question, as well.  The death of Aharon’s sons is recorded several chapters earlier, in chapter 10.  If, for whatever reason, God issued the instructions of avodat Yom Ha-kippurim specifically “after the death of the two sons of Aharon,” why must we wait so many chapters before hearing about it?

The answer perhaps lies in the nature of the sin transgressed by Nadav and Avihu (Aharon’s two sons) as well as in the content of the interim chapters, between the account of their death and our parasha. The opening verse of Parashat Acharei-Mot describes their death as follows: “when they came near before the Lord and they died.”  Elsewhere, the Torah refers to their sin in terms of the unwarranted offering they brought (for example, see Bemidbar 26:21).  Apparently, the Torah here wishes to focus on the approach itself, the erosion of the barriers between man and God.  The Mishkan offered Benei Yisrael the unique opportunity of “kirva,” closeness to God, but that closeness requires the balance of distance, a sense of awe and reverence.  The sin of Nadav and Avihu was one of unmitigated kirva, a closeness that lacked the mitigating effect of distance.  (As we discussed in our S.A.L.T. series to Parashat Shemini, this explains the various approaches taken in the Midrash to the precise point of their sin – that they entered under intoxication, their failure to consult with Moshe and Aharon, their attempt to prematurely ascend to power, etc.  All this points to a general sense of recklessness and haste, as opposed to the proper standard of discipline required as an expression of reverence towards the Shekhina.)

Understandably, then, what follows the Torah’s account of this sin is a unit describing the laws of tum’a and tahara, ritual purity and impurity.  These laws, which run from chapter 11 through the end of Parashat Metzora, inform Benei Yisrael of when they may and may not enter God’s Sanctuary and partake of sacrificial meat.  The underlying motif of tum’a and tahara is distance, a type of formal protocol required before entering the divine palace.  Not everyone can enter at any time.  There are guidelines to follow, regulations by which to abide, and strict procedures governing the entry of God’s subjects into His Mishkan.  These laws constitute a natural response to the tragic incident of Nadav and Avihu.

Only once we have completed this discussion of distance can we now return to the theme of closeness, which had been interrupted by the death of Aharon’s sons and its aftermath.  Having completed the laws of tum’a and tahara, the Torah turns its attention to the pinnacle of closeness with God – the Yom Kippur service, the one time when a human being (the kohen gadol) may enter the innermost sanctum of the Mishkan.  “After the death of the two sons of Aharon,” once we understand the consequences of unmitigated closeness, can we learn of the most intense encounter between the human being and the Shekhina.  This close relationship with the Almighty can occur only off the backdrop of the theme of distance, represented by the tragedy of Aharon’s sons’ deaths and the intricate laws of tum’a and tahara, which establish a specific protocol and procedure for Benei Yisrael’s entry into the home of the Shekhina’s residence.

(Based on a conversation with Rav Yair Kahn)

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In the middle of Parashat Acharei-Mot (chapter 17) we read of the prohibition forbidding Benei Yisrael from sacrificing animals outside the context of the Mishkan sacrifices.  Chazal refer to this law as “basar ta’ava,” literally, “meat of desire.”  During their sojourn through the wilderness, Benei Yisrael could eat only sacrificial meat; they could not slaughter animals for consumption outside the sacrificial framework.

The Midrash (Yalkut Shimoni 579) formulates this law as follows: “Benei Yisrael were forbidden [from partaking of] basar ta’ava in the wilderness.  The Scripture therefore admonished them that they should bring their sacrifices to the kohen, and the kohen would slaughter [the animal] and receive [the blood, part of the formal sacrificial ritual].”  The Midrash’s description of the kohen’s role in this process appears, at first glance, difficult to understand.  According to this formulation, specifically the kohen must slaughter the animal brought for a sacrifice.  This requirement appears to negate a famous, well-established principle that “shechita kesheira be-zar” – a non-kohen may slaughter sacrifices.  The other three stages of the sacrificial process – receiving the blood, bringing the blood to the altar, and sprinkling of the blood – must be performed by a kohen.  The shechita, by contrast, may be done by anyone.  Why, then, does the Midrash Tanchuma describe the kohen as the one who must slaughter Benei Yisrael’s sacrifices in the wilderness?

A novel theory on the basis of this Midrashic passage is cited in the name of Rav Zalman of Volozhin.  Namely, this famous halakha of “shechita kesheira be-zar” did not apply during the period of Benei Yisrael’s sojourn in the wilderness. Only once Benei Yisrael entered the Land did this rule take effect.  The reason for this distinction evolves from the reason underlying this principle.  A non-kohen may slaughter sacrifices because halakha normally does not consider shechita an “avoda” – part of the formal, sacrificial process.  Since shechita is performed even outside the sacrificial framework, in preparing kosher meat, we cannot deem this act of shechita a uniquely sacrificial ritual. Therefore, any Jew may slaughter a sacrifice, not only a kohen.  We can then understand why this rule would not apply in the wilderness.  As mentioned, Benei Yisrael were not permitted to eat any meat in the wilderness outside the formal framework of the korbanot. As a result, shechita was, indeed, a uniquely sacrificial act, and we therefore consider it an integral part of the sacrificial ritual, requiring a kohen.

An expanded form of this general approach is cited in the name of the “Imrei Shefer,” who seeks to explain the continuation of this passage in the Midrash.  The Yalkut Shimoni continues, “Although the owner [i.e. the one bringing the sacrifice] sits and thinks all day, we follow only the one slaughtering.” The “thinking” spoken of in this passage refers to thoughts of idolatry, the intention that the sacrifice is slaughtered to a pagan deity.  The Midrash here emphasizes that the fact that only a kohen may slaughter the sacrifice ensures that no offering will be halakhically disqualified on the grounds of idolatrous intention on the part of the one performing it.  Since in halakha we take into consideration only the intention of the one slaughtering, the owner’s thoughts will have no bearing on the offering’s status.  The Imrei Shefer explains that this itself is the reason why God forbade all animal slaughtering in the wilderness outside the sacrificial context.  Given the difficulty Benei Yisrael had in extricating themselves from Egyptian paganism, the concern arose that they may offer sacrifices to pagan gods during this period.  By requiring that all consumption of meat take place within the framework of the korbanot, it became necessary for the kohanim to slaughter all animals, as explained above.  Therefore, even if the individual bringing a given sacrifice has pagan intentions, these intentions will be of no consequence and will not disqualify the offering, since halakha takes into account only the intention of the one slaughtering, not that of the sacrifice’s owner.